


23

by warmfoothills



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Praise Kink, a little bit? maybe?, birthday sex by jeremih mp3, fun and casual and consensual lesbian sex, my kinda thing, they're both girls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 06:50:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15576183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmfoothills/pseuds/warmfoothills
Summary: Potter walks in when Draco is already two drinks deep, a recipe for complete humiliation at the best of times and that’s if Draco’s being optimistic, which she isn’t naturally predisposed to be.





	23

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't really written anything since 2015 and then this summer i started writing four hundred things at once. this was originally supposed to be a birthday harry fic but i got carried away so it's a little late, hope it's not complete shite i just really like writing about drarry as lesbians apparently x

Potter walks in when Draco is already two drinks deep, a recipe for complete humiliation at the best of times and that’s if Draco’s being optimistic, which she isn’t naturally predisposed to be. Pansy stops halfway through the story she’s been telling her because Draco suddenly forgets how to behave like an actual human and makes a sort of flailing gesture at the barman for another drink. From here on out, more alcohol can only help.

Draco doesn’t even know why Potter and her friends are here, she and Pansy come to this bar specifically because it’s usually packed out with most of the wizarding population of London under the age of 30. It’s the kind of place Potter avoids unless she wants to get mobbed. She must have made an exception for her birthday — and Draco cannot be blamed for knowing that, it’s been all over the press — and she watches as Potter starts making her way towards the bar. Draco shifts so she’s hidden from view by Pansy in a move that is clearly not as subtle as she thinks because Pansy snorts at her.

Someone’s pinned a frankly ridiculous badge to the front of Potter’s top, which is long sleeved and far too casual for this place, tucked messily into denim shorts. Draco’s gaze gets lost somewhere around Potter’s thighs because Merlin _fuck_ , she knew Potter played Quidditch professionally these days but _really_.

A hand waves in front of Draco’s face, long red nails almost taking her eye out. “Earth to Draco?” Pansy says, rolling her eyes as Draco’s gaze snaps to hers for a second before flitting back to Potter, who’s made it to the bar easily, people parting around her. She’s laughing, her hair loose, which is just— a lot to take in, Draco’s not used to seeing it. Potter had let it grow out since the end of school but it’s usually shoved back into a braid when she’s playing, not swinging over her shoulder like this, strands getting caught in her face as she chats to Granger, her elbows on the bar. Draco spares a single, longing thought for when Potter’s head had looked like a birds’ nest and she could at least use it as a distraction from the fact that the idiot has a stupidly fit face.

Draco runs a hand through her own hair distractedly, messing it up in a way she absolutely had not practiced in front of the mirror when she’d first cut it short a couple of years ago. Years of slicking it back into a tight ponytail are over and now it falls loose and messy down to her cheekbones.

Pansy looks over her shoulder and then back at Draco with an exasperated expression. “For gods’ sake Draco, will you just go talk to her for once?”

Draco’s third drink has arrived which provides an excellent distraction and excuse to not answer that question. She’s not sure why she feels like this about Potter. Usually, she has little trouble approaching girls she’s interested in and it’s not like she thinks Potter isn’t into women, she’s seen the articles. Hell, her best friend _writes_ the articles. But this is Potter, who’s always been a certain level of untouchable.

Speaking of, said best friend does not seem in the mood to let Draco do what she inevitably will tonight if left to her own devices — get increasingly more pissed until Pansy has to drag her home before she really _does_ go talk to Potter and embarrass herself so much she has to go into hiding, possibly abroad. Somewhere warm, where she doesn’t know anybody and she can drink wine with every meal.

“Draco. I’m serious,” Pansy pokes a finger into Draco’s cheek. She looks it too; she’s got her stern face on, which Draco is grudgingly impressed by. Pansy had been out with work friends before Draco had joined her and she’s put away considerably more drinks than Draco. “She’s single, you’re single, you clearly want to shag her brains out, she probably feels the same way..”

Draco splutters at that. “Probably?! Pans, I can’t risk my dignity on _probably_. There’s every chance she’ll laugh in my face.”

“Oh, tell me you don’t need me to do the whole ‘you’re wonderful and fit as and any girl would be lucky to have you in their bed’ routine tonight, because I really can _not_ be arsed.” Pansy drains the last of her drink, which is pink and frothy, and waves her empty martini glass at the barman. “Anyway, if Weasley is to be trusted, this little obsession of yours is not one-sided.”

Draco raises an eyebrow at that, momentarily distracted from her attempts at trying to watch Potter without risking the other girl seeing her. “Weasley? Since when do you talk to Weasley?”

“Since I see her at work,” says Pansy, not really paying attention. “Gods this is taking forever, I’m remembering why we don’t come here on the weekends anymore.”

Draco will never not be surprised that someone who cares so very little about sports got hired to be the main Quidditch correspondent for the Prophet. Although, Pansy’s complete lack of interest in the game doesn’t seem to have stopped her from getting exclusive interview after exclusive interview with half the players in the country, and several from around the world too. And Draco’s certainly not complaining — Pansy gets her free tickets to most games.

“Anyway, that’s not the point.” She fixes Draco with her stern look again. “The point is you need to just get it over with. At least if it all goes tits up I’ll be dealing with mopey Draco rather than this mess; she’s much more fun and likely to engage in spontaneously bad ideas. You’re so boring when you’re too busy trying to seduce Potter from across a room to pay attention to me.”

Draco starts to shove Pansy for that one but Pansy holds steady on her stool and shifts her weight so she’s propelling Draco in the other direction, saying, “Look, she’s on her own, go now, before the Gryffindors descend,” and Draco has no choice really but to stumble over there.

She was hoping to orchestrate this in a way that would make her look as suave as possible, maybe lean casually on the bar next to Potter in the guise of ordering another drink, but it’s ruined because Potter sees her immediately, almost as if she’d been watching her break away from Pansy. There’s nothing else for it now they’ve locked eyes, Draco’s going to bloody well go over there isn’t she? Fuck, she wishes she were less drunk, or failing that, exponentially _more_ drunk.

“Malfoy,” Potter says when Draco is within speaking distance. Her gaze flicks up and down the length of Draco’s body. She’s not sure if Potter meant her to see but it makes her feel hot all over whether it was intentional or not.

“Potter,” she says, keeping her voice level with a bit of effort. “Fun night?” It’s a stupid question but she’s not going to do anything so crass as wish Potter a happy birthday and she can’t think of anything else to say. They don’t talk, normally, they just occasionally exchange smouldering eye contact whenever they happen to stumble across one another.

Potter shrugs, throwing back the last of her drink. Draco watches her throat move and then quickly looks away, swallowing herself, as Potter raises two fingers from her glass towards the barman. He comes over straight away, of course, and Draco wonders when Potter’s ability to get anything she wants stopped being annoying and started being annoying _ly_ attractive.

“Not bad,” she says, when the barman has refilled her glass. “Just getting started, I hope.”

And surely Draco is reading too much into the way Potter says that, the look she shoots Draco from under her eyelashes. She’s turned so she’s facing Draco properly, propped up on the bar.

Draco hums and takes a sip of her own drink, thankful she’d had it with her when Pansy had pushed her over here — it gives her something to do with her hands that isn’t hook them into Potter’s belt loops like she really wants to.

“You look good,” she blurts out before she really thinks about what she’s saying and then, quickly, “I saw your match against the Wasps last weekend,” which isn’t any fucking better really, but if she’s going to embarrass herself she might as well go the whole hog.

The thing is, Potter already knows she saw the match because she’d seen her there, Draco dragged along by Pansy to get pitch-side comments after the game was over. Potter had just touched down, sweaty and grinning from their win, which had been very close, snatched at the last minute by a pretty spectacular catch from Potter that had put her team ahead by a mere 20 points. She’d rocked up, pushing tendrils of hair out of her face, giving her statements to the press all whilst shooting Draco these little looks like she knew how good she looked and how seriously Draco was considering the merits of trying to break into the changing rooms later. Draco wasn’t even supposed the be there; it was for journalists only.

“Thanks,” Potter says, looking only a little surprised at the compliment. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” she continues, with this dirty grin that has heat curling up Draco’s spine and then, “What did you think? About the match, I mean. Really thought we might lose for a couple of minutes after that bludger took Jones out but I spotted the snitch whilst Cooper was distracted. Lucky catch, I guess.”

Draco scoffs at that, because, yeah, if you want to call a perfectly executed dive turned back-flip a lucky catch then sure. She still remembers what Potter had looked like, spinning out of the way of the other team’s beater at the last second, ending up flat on her back on the pitch with the snitch clutched in her hand, letting out this whoop of laughter as she punched her fist in the air and her team descended on her.

“So modest, Potter,” she says. “Have you not grown out of that shtick yet?”

And it’s nice, more than nice, the way Potter’s eyes flash at that, the teasing. It’s funny because Draco really used to think it _was_ a shtick, that Potter was exaggerating how much of a self-critic she was all through Hogwarts and the war and her training before she went professional. Now, though, it’s impossible to see this adult Potter and not realise that it’s the truth, that she really does hold herself to that high of a standard, and how unbearably hot that is, somehow.

Potter rolls her eyes, but she also bites her lip which is promising. This whole situation is promising: them having an actual conversation, the way Potter keeps looking at her from under her eyelashes like that.

“Seriously, though,” Draco says, the alcohol and the heat of Potter’s gaze loosening her tongue. “It was a pretty cool manoeuvre,” and then immediately flushes pink.

“Cool? High praise from you, Malfoy. I always got the impression you thought I was a bit of an idiot.”

She says it with one eyebrow raised which, excuse her, everyone knows that’s Draco’s thing, how did Potter even learn to do that, and she’s just leaning there all cocky and sure of herself against the bar. Draco wants to mess her up. Who let Potter get this confident? It’s nauseating, except in the way that it’s really not and is making Draco want to get on her knees in the middle of this crowded bar.

“Oh, you definitely are,” Draco says airily, thanking her pureblood upbringing for instilling in her the skill of coming across as cooly composed when your insides are doing something completely undignified. “Just because you’re a damn good Quidditch player and apparently learned to brush your hair and dress yourself..” She lets her gaze drag up the length of Potter’s body deliberately slowly. “Well, barely, but I’m sure you’ll get there.”

Potter only laughs that stupidly charming laugh again and sort of— shifts. She keeps wriggling around, dipping back on her elbows so the height difference between them becomes more pronounced and she’s looking up at Draco, smirking.

Some idiot shoves behind Draco and knocks her so she stumbles forward slightly, catching herself on the bar-top next to Potter and getting close enough to realise Potter smells all woody and Merlin, Draco is losing her fucking mind.

Luckily, Pansy, who seems to have this sixth sense about when Draco needs her, shows up before she can make a complete fool of herself by doing something like burying her nose in Potter’s neck as she’d been considering just then. “Come dance, Draco!” Pansy half whines, grinning easily at Potter when the other girl nods in greeting.

Draco lets herself be pulled away and she can feel Potter’s gaze on her back as Pansy pushes people aside to get them into the thick of the crowd. The music here is good, it’s another reason they like the place so much, and it’s easy to lose herself to the rhythm of it. Every time she spins and ends up facing the bar Potter hasn’t moved. She’s right where Draco left her, nursing her drink, gaze cool and steady and stuck on Draco, even as she listens to whatever Weasley is now rambling on about to the left of her.

Draco is drunk on it; she feels like she spent half her life at school trying to get Potter to notice her and now here she is, seemingly unable or unwilling to look away as Draco dances, throws her head back and spins Pansy around, laughs at the ridiculous moves her best friend always somehow ropes her into. She gets distracted for a sec trying to convince Pansy that, no, this is absolutely not the time and place for the routine they’d perfected together aged nine, and when she turns back to the bar it’s empty. Well, not empty, it’s Friday night, but it’s empty of what Draco is looking for, empty of short, nice-smelling girls with green eyes that’ve been looking at Draco like she’s a particularly refreshing glass of elf-made wine all night.

Draco barely has time to feel her stomach start to drop in disappointment before there are hands on her waist. She spins wildly and comes face to face with the eyes she’d just been scanning the room for: Potter, right there, inches from her nose. Draco is suddenly very aware of how sweaty and gross she probably looks but also, she doesn’t really care.

“Hi, again,” Potter says, voice pitched loud over the music, her hands still on Draco’s waist. They’re not doing anything, they’re just— there, warm. Draco can feel the broom-callouses on them and she makes a bodily effort not to shiver.

“Hello,” Draco all but yells back. It’s so loud here, in the thick of it. She can see Pansy giving her very unhelpful thumbs-ups over Potter’s shoulder but it’s enough to get her over the initial shock of having Potter suddenly all up in her face. She moves closer on the pretext of casually starting to move to the music again and then they’re sort of— in each other’s space, moving together.

Potter is a truly terrible dancer. The way she moves on a broom is so brilliant and graceful sometimes Draco could cry watching her, if she’s had one too many pints at a match, but that grace unfortunately does not translate to the ground. Draco’s laughing at her within thirty seconds but she doesn’t look pissed off. She just shrugs and grins, teeth flashing, like she knows exactly how awful she is and doesn’t much care. Draco finds she doesn’t much care either, as long as Potter’s hands stay where they are and they stay this close.

“So,” says Potter, pulling her in until she can talk into Draco’s ear. “How many songs do I have to pretend to be able to dance to with you before you’ll let me find us an empty bathroom stall?”

Draco’s brain, a bit fuzzy with alcohol, takes longer to process this than she would have liked, stumbling over all the pronouns, and when it finally does make sense she can’t think of a damn thing to say. Which might actually be a first, but there’s no time to think about that now because a willing Potter plus the idea of an empty stall sounds like an incredibly appealing combination right now. She’s hardly had to do any work at all and Potter’s all but offering herself up, simple as.

Potter tightens her grip on Draco’s waist, clearly waiting for an answer and Draco looks down at her, frozen for a second, and then grabs her by the wrist, dragging them through the crowd. She can just hear Potter’s laugh at her eagerness behind her, and she could turn around to remind Potter who exactly propositioned who on the dance floor but that would get in the way of her main goal at the minute, which is to get out of the mass of people.

There’s a bloody queue for the loos, of course, and it’s not long but Draco makes to shove past it anyway. She’s held back by Potter, who tugs them to the back of the line. Draco raises an incredulous eyebrow but Potter only shrugs again and presses Draco against the wall of the dimly lit corridor, so Draco can’t really complain. When Potter kisses her, she all but melts, getting her hands into that long hair as soon as she can and holding Potter’s head in place so she can give as good as she’s getting. No-one pays them any attention, the queue full of girls chatting and laughing and yelling through the open bathroom door for people to hurry up.

“Mhm,” Potter hums, when they separate for air. “Been wanting to do that all night.”

“Yeah,” Draco breathes, running her tongue over her bottom lip and pushing her hair back as she catches her breath.

Potter laughs at what Draco is sure is a dazed look on her face and then they’re kissing again and she gets a little lost and then they’re at the front of the queue before Draco even realises what’s happening. Draco gets them into the stall right at the end and barely has time to lock the door before Potter is back on her, mouth sweet and sure on hers, hands on her neck, one either side, thumbs pressing up along Draco’s jaw.

She’s not quiet either, making these small noises against Draco’s mouth, and Draco is in no place to judge, she keeps saying Potter’s name and she can’t seem to make herself stop. Everyone probably knows exactly what they’re doing in here, despite the general noise of drunk girls in a bathroom. That knowledge shouldn’t make Draco feel so good but it does. Potter seems to agree because she presses Draco against the wall and shoves a thigh between her legs and this is becoming a theme, Potter pushing her up against things, and Draco is absolutely 100% in support of it, except she wouldn’t mind if maybe the surfaces were a little softer.

“Fuck, Potter,” she breathes and then, “Wait, _wait_ , you’re not actually going to fuck me in the toilet, are you? How old are we?”

Potter laughs, gets a hand under Draco’s thigh to pull it up around her waist and bites her neck, a little too hard. “Did you miss the huge badge pinned to my tits? I’ll admit they’re quite distracting but I wouldn’t have thought they’d prevent you from reading..”

Merlin, she is an absolute nightmare, what the fuck is Draco doing. She lets her head fall back to give Potter better access and is annoyingly very aware of the surely thousands of germs on the tiled wall now in direct contact with her hair. “Potter,” she says, horrified at how it comes out like a whine, and half-heartedly tries to push her back with one hand even as she wraps her other leg up around Potter’s waist so that Potter has to support her weight.

“Merlin, fine,” Potter says, and her muttering about high-maintenance insufferable pureblood _snobs_ is the only warning Draco gets before they’re squeezing through darkness and popping back into existence in an unfamiliar room. It’s dim, but enough light spills in through the huge window that Draco can vaguely make out the shapes of furniture.

Draco’s head is spinning and she’s still wrapped around Potter, who’s holding her up with apparent ease, grinning unashamedly as if she hadn’t just presumptuously apparated them both into what looks like her bedroom.

“Warn a girl first, Potter,” Draco is aiming for outraged but misses by about three hundred miles and lands somewhere between breathy and embarrassingly turned on. “If you’d splinched us I swear to Circe’s left tit—”

“God, do you ever shut up?” Potter asks, walking them backwards with her hands now under Draco’s arse for balance, toeing off her shoes as she goes. She throws Draco unceremoniously onto the bed — Draco absolutely does not _squeak_ at that, it was definitely the sub-standard mattress — and climbs up over her, flicking her hand at a lamp next to the bed to turn it on.

Draco, ironically, is momentarily lost for words when confronted with the full weight of Harry Potter, Girl Who Lived, on top of her, bathed in the soft glow. Potter won’t stop _smiling_ , the utter lunatic, and her eyes are so green behind her glasses, her hair falling in sweet-smelling curtains either side of them.

“I’m only kidding,” she says, and winks, which should look ridiculous and not devastatingly hot. “I like that you’re mouthy.”

Oh, I’ll bloody well give you mouthy, Draco thinks, but doesn’t actually say because she’s busy rolling them over and straddling Potter’s hips, pinning her hands above her head on the bed. Potter looks a bit blindsided for a split second before her expression goes all challenging and when has Draco ever, in the history of their entire— well, history, been able to resist a challenge from Potter?

She puts all of her not inconsiderable skill into the kiss, nipping at Potter’s lips, licking into her mouth and then lifting off so Potter strains her head up, chasing Draco. After Draco’s done this little routine no less than three times, keeping Potter pinned to the bed all the while, Potter flops back, frustrated and pouts at Draco. “It’s my birthday,” she says, and then just lies there looking up at Draco. She must be doing it on purpose, the whole— swollen lips parted, hair fanned out around her on the bed thing, but damned if Draco isn’t completely weak for it.

“And what does the birthday girl want?” Draco asks, feeling herself go all hot and syrupy at the way Potter’s eyes darken with the question, her breathing getting weightier.

“Honestly, I’d quite like to get my fingers in you.” She says it matter-of-factly and Draco almost loses her balance and collapses on top of her.

“That can be arranged,” Her voice comes out strangled but she thinks that’s fair enough considering the situation. She’s only human after all and this is Harry Potter, star of pretty much every fantasy Draco’s ever entertained and also apparently the kind of girl who, when confronted with Draco essentially offering herself up on a platter, decides that what would make her happiest is to get _Draco_ off like, ok, that can definitely happen but Draco wasn’t exactly expecting it, if she’s honest, she’d thought Potter would probably want to get Draco on her knees just to shut her up. And isn’t that a thought she’s now finding it difficult to shake out of her head.

Draco realises she’s monologuing in her head instead of actually saying anything out loud and swallows, shutting her mouth which has probably been hanging open gormlessly this whole time. Perfect. “Ok, I just want to— let me do something first.”

She waits for Potter to nod and leans down to kiss her again, just once, because she can, before she slides further down the bed. When she pops the button on Potter’s shorts, Potter pushes herself up onto her elbows to watch and helpfully lifts her hips up so Draco can slide them down her legs, throwing them somewhere behind her. Draco finally, _finally_ gets her hands on those thighs, fingers squeezing the muscle and running over smooth, brown skin, feeling the hair as she runs her palms up towards where Potter’s legs meet her hips.

Potter’s underwear is nondescript black cotton but Draco can already see it’s damp and warm and when she leans down — going slowly to allow Potter time to push her back if she wants to — Potter smells good here too, musky and a little sweet and Draco all but buries her face there, hands still on Potter’s thighs, keeping them spread.

Potter lets out this sound that has Draco pressing her own hips into the bed, parting her mouth against the damp fabric and kissing over it probably a little too sloppily to not be embarrassing. She’ll worry about that later. Her whole body feels hot, and a shudder shakes over her when Potter pushes a hand into her hair, keeping her there between her legs. Draco allows it for a minute, pressing messy kisses over the front of Potter’s underwear before she shifts upward, pushing Potter’s shirt out of the way to expose her toned stomach and kissing along there too, the flesh tense and warm under her mouth. Potter’s so responsive, making all these small, high noises and constantly shifting, her legs moving either side of Draco, fingers raking through Draco’s hair, toes curling into the bed.

“Merlin, you smell good,” Draco murmurs. Potter’s always been this reckless ball of energy, magic and power and temper contained barely below the surface and it’s as addictive now as it was when they were fifteen and about two seconds away from decking each other at all times.

“Draco, just—” Potter pants, shocking Draco with the use of her first name and using her grip in Draco’s hair to get her mouth back where Potter wants it. The tug hurts a bit in a way that feels so good Draco moans herself, the vibrations against Potter making her buck up. She pushes into Draco’s mouth, holding her head down, gently enough at first that Draco can break away if necessary, and then with more force when Draco moans again, enthusiastically, and pushes closer.

Her mouth is open over Potter, her tongue flat as Potter moves up into the pressure and then, suddenly, comes just like that against Draco’s mouth, shaking above and around and beneath Draco, making noises that have Draco squeezing her legs together.

There’s a pause where Draco is absent-mindedly running the fingers of one hand over Potter’s skin, propped up with her chin on the other, on her front between Potter’s legs. Potter, to her credit, takes roughly twenty seconds to lie there boneless and then says, decisively, “Fuck,” and sits up, pulling Draco up with her until they’re kissing again, both up on their knees, Draco’s arms around Potter’s neck. She moans right into Draco’s mouth and tries to get them impossibly closer.

“Guess your mouth is good for more than making bitchy comments,” Potter gets out between kisses, and Draco kisses across her jaw, gets her earlobe between her teeth in retaliation. Her tone isn’t mean though, it’s teasing and warm and her laughter is infectious. Draco hadn’t imagined it would be like this, and she’d thought about it a lot. Passionate, yeah, hate-fuelled and angry, most likely, but not this, this easy back and forth. It’s fun, she realises a little deliriously, and _nice_ and all those other awful words, to be here tangled with Potter.

“Don’t know about that,” Draco says directly into Potter’s ear, feeling her squirm away as her breath hits Potter’s skin. “I barely had much time to _do_ anything.”

Potter slaps her arse playfully and they’re both giggling like Hufflepuffs, Draco is honestly never going to live this down.

“Oi,” Potter says, turning Draco’s face back to hers so she can kiss her again. “’S not my fault. You were giving me bedroom eyes all night.”

Draco snorts, gripping the bottom of Potter’s shirt so she can pull it up over her head and duck down to kiss the newly-exposed flesh. She lets her hands skim down Potter’s sides, digging her fingers in when Potter gasps and tries to wriggle away. “Ticklish,” she breathes, so Draco does it again, until Potter grabs her by the wrists and holds them behind her back, catching Draco’s lower lip between her teeth, releasing it with a soft pull back to meet Draco’s eyes.

“Not very good at following orders, are you?” Potter doesn’t look put out, rather, she looks frighteningly like Draco is everything she’s ever wanted and then some. It’s more than a bit overwhelming, having the full force of her gaze directed at Draco this close up.

“Was that what that was?” she asks, because this is how they’re doing it apparently, this ridiculous teasing. “I didn’t hear you actually tell me to do anything.”

It has exactly the effect she intends it to. Potter raises her eyebrows and flips them with strong hands around Draco’s middle in about two seconds, manoeuvring them up the bed slightly so Potter’s leaning against the headboard with Draco sitting between her legs, back pressed to Potter’s front and Potter’s chin hooked over her shoulder. Draco wouldn’t admit it for the all the galleons in Gringotts but having Potter manhandle her is an unexpected rush, the way she could probably easily throw Draco over her shoulder and carry her off somewhere if she wanted. _Draco_ wants.

“How’s this for an order,” Potter says, nosing the back of Draco’s neck, “You should sit there and let me put my fingers in you like I asked.”

Draco feels her bones go all pliable at the level tone and the words Potter says so freely. Potter’s teeth are a light scrape on the skin where her neck meets her shoulder. One strap of her top falls down her arm and she starts trying to get her jeans off without even undoing the button, almost braining Potter with the back of her head when she pushes up to get them over her arse.

Potter gets the hint quickly and moves to help, until they’re both half-dressed, Draco in her top and knickers and Potter still down to her underwear. Draco hadn’t worn a bra, she doesn’t often because she’s been cursed — or blessed, depending on her mood — with the traditionally tiny Malfoy tits, and Potter fits a hand over her chest, palming her until Draco’s nipples are hard through her shirt. Draco lets her head fall back onto Potter’s shoulder as she slips her other hand into Draco’s pants, cupping over her and letting Draco grind down.

Draco is distantly aware she’s making some pretty loud noises but she can’t bring herself to care, not when Potter has her like this, not when she pulls at Potter’s wrist until she can bring her hand up to her mouth and suck two fingers into it.

“Jesus,” says Potter, her voice going all deep and catching slightly in this way that Draco wants to hear on repeat, possibly forever. Her fingers feel good in Draco’s mouth, strong, and Draco thinks about having them inside her and shudders, suddenly impatient, pulling them out with a slick noise and shoving them back in the direction of her hips.

“Get these out the way,” Potter says, and Draco is pleased to note she sounds breathless too, like she’s as gone for this as Draco is. She pats at Draco’s hip with the hand that Draco hasn’t just had in her mouth, and Draco obediently pulls her knickers off and kicks them off the end of the bed. Potter wastes no time in getting straight down to it then, pushing one finger into Draco as Draco tries not to writhe around unattractively and fails. Although, she might actually manage to do it attractively, if the way Potter has started making these appreciative noises is anything to go by.

“Can you—” Potter says, sort of sheepishly, after she’s begun pumping her finger in and out. “Can you tell me if it feels good?” She sounds a little embarrassed about it.

“Merlin, Potter, yes, it feels good, shit,” Draco pants, her own hands splayed on Potter’s thighs again, trying to communicate that she needs more through hip movements rather than actual words.

Potter huffs out a laugh, and sounds a little self-conscious when she continues, which should not make Draco’s chest feel all full and fluttery, but it does. “I mean, like, talk to me about it.”

She should have known Potter would want her bloody ego stroked. Except, Draco knows it’s not really about that and she’s surprised to find she wants to, wants to tell Potter how good she’s making her feel.

She exhales loudly and pushes her hair out of her face where it’s getting in the way. “Give me another one,” she says, not quite a demand, not quite a request, but Potter does, adding another finger and curving her hand so her palm is pressed to Draco’s clit as she moves inside her.

“It’s good,” she starts, a little hesitantly, carefully. She doesn’t want to fuck this up and sound ridiculous. “Feels good.” She licks her lips; there’s a beat of silence as Draco considers. “ _You’re_ good.”

And there it is, the catch in Potter’s breathing that Draco hears behind her because they’re so close and oh, ok she was right, she can do this. It is still Potter’s birthday after all.

“So good, Potter,” she breathes. “You’re so good at this, make me feel so good, so full with your fingers inside me.” And Potter moans, _loudly,_ and Draco hopes there’s no one else in the house, bloody hell.

“Harry,” she pants, her mouth open and wet against Draco’s shoulder, fingers moving faster.

Merlin. “Ok, Harry,” Draco says, the name feeling so natural in her mouth that it’s weird. “You’re doing so good, Harry, love having you around me, loved how you lay still and let me taste you earlier.”

Potter— _Harry_ , groans at that and speeds up her hand again, fucking into Draco and pulling her back so that she can grind her hips into Draco’s arse, seeking pressure.

“God, your accent,” she says, and Draco has to laugh at that, even as she feels heat building up from the base of her spine, Harry’s fingers strong and thick inside her, her hand applying perfect pressure to Draco’s clit.

“That’s what does it for you?” she asks, deliberately elongating her vowels and exaggerating her consonants, though she doesn’t know how much of it comes through the desperate tone her words have taken on.

Harry kisses up her neck, her other hand pinching one nipple between her fingers so that Draco gasps and jerks back into her. “Fuck yes,” she breathes. “Your posh pureblood accent talking about tasting me— Jesus, Draco.”

Draco laughs again, or more accurately, breathily expels a lot of air and she’s getting close now, she can feel it.

“You going to come?” Harry asks, and Draco can only nod, can only lie back and take it as Harry doubles her efforts, her hand moving fast and hard inside of Draco. Draco’s legs bend at the knees, her feet pushing into the mattress, hands scrabbling up behind her until she can get them into Harry’s hair, tilting her head to capture her mouth again. It’s a bit of an awkward angle but Draco’s too far gone to actually kiss Harry anyway, so she just breathes against her mouth and feels everything peak, bright and white-hot.

She reaches down and holds Harry’s hand inside her as she comes, clenching around her fingers, body tensed as it washes over her and then going loose and liquid as she finishes.

“Fuck,” Harry is saying, “Fuck, fuck fuck.” Draco is smiling, her eyes closed. She feels like a dead weight, supported by Harry at her back.

“D’you want me to—?” she asks, though she’s not sure she actually has the energy right now, but it doesn’t matter because Harry shakes her head — Draco can feel the movement on her shoulder.

“Just— stay there a sec, _fuck_ ,” Harry pants and holds Draco down, shifting her back and up a bit until she’s more in Harry’s lap and then moving her hips in these small little circles against Draco’s arse. Her fingers are still inside Draco, which is nice when she clenches down and feels them there. She feels lazy and hot, not so desperate now she’s come but still really good, all sleepy and turned on.

“Such language, Potter,” she mock-scolds, twisting her head to nose at Harry’s neck. Harry comes again then, quick and shuddering all along Draco’s back.

Draco lets her slump them both down further, content to lie there against Harry. Harry entwines the fingers of their hands and Draco rolls her eyes but allows it.

“Not to inflate your ego, but wow,” Harry says, after a minute or so, and Draco laughs, watching the way Harry’s thumb is stroking over the back of her hand. “Although next time I’d like to be able to see your face properly when you come.”

“Next time?” Draco asks, her pulse picking up. She hadn’t— she sort of expected this to be a one time thing.

“Yeah, I mean—” Potter moves them until they’re lying on their sides, facing each other, joint hands on the pillow between them. “If you want.” She keeps her voice casual but Draco can see the uncertainty on her face.

“I do,” Draco says, instead of the several other witty retorts that have already lined themselves up in her head. She senses that this might be the time for a little bit of vulnerability, much as she is disinclined to even think that word, let alone make an attempt to emulate it.

The grin that breaks on Harry’s face a moment later confirms that she made the right choice. She bites her bottom lip to try and contain it with limited success and Draco can’t help but lean in, rolling them until she’s on top of Harry again. She likes this position; she could definitely get used to it.

“You should come to a game sometime,” Harry says like Draco hasn’t been to every one of her games already and they haven’t engaged in some truly inappropriate eye contact every time they crossed paths. Draco nods and, in a move she will vehemently deny later, kisses the tip of Harry’s nose. Harry looks delighted and opens her mouth so Draco has to — she _has_ to, her reputation is at stake — cut her off with a kiss, deep and filthy and much more appropriate for her image.

“Not a word, Potter,” she mumbles against Harry’s lips and then, when Harry is sufficiently dazed from having her mouth expertly ravaged, even if Draco says so herself, “Happy birthday.”

Harry grins. “Thanks, though it’s not technically my birthday anymore.” Then she yawns, right in Draco’s face.

“Charming,” Draco says it sarcastically and unfortunately means it whole-heartedly. “I suppose you’re right, though.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Potter says, around another yawn. She’s already stretching out, wriggling around to try and get under the covers with Draco still on top of her. “You staying?”

She asks it completely casually, like it’s perfectly normal for Draco to be in Harry’s bed at all, let alone planning on sleeping there for an entire night. Draco could freak out about this if she let herself. Or she could follow Harry’s lead and pretend like it’s not a big deal. Only one option gets her a warm, full bed for the night, so it’s not difficult. She nods.

“Brilliant,” Harry says, like she really thinks it is. “You can make me breakfast in the morning. Do you even know how to cook? I have a house-elf but I tend not to whip him out for morning-afters; he scares them off. And I still feel weird about him doing stuff for me without pay like— it’s just odd, I’m—”

“Potter,” Draco interrupts. She’s a little overwhelmed, every side of Harry is overwhelming, but this rambly, soft, post-sex Harry might be Draco’s favourite so far. “If I’m staying you better make room. And shut up so we can actually sleep.”

Harry laughs, all deep and tired and says “Sorry,” not sounding very sorry at all and then, “You really have to start calling me Harry. That wasn’t just a— sex thing.” She shifts over, sitting up slightly to unhook her bra with a noise of relief and then hanging off the side of the bed to reach for her wand, pointing it at the lamp to turn it off. Then she flops back down onto one side of the bed.

“Alright.” Draco pulls her own top over her head before she can overthink it and lies down next to her. There’s space between them; it’s a pretty big bed.

“Come here, idiot,” Harry says into the darkness, voice slurred like she’s already half-asleep, and warm hands find Draco, position her until she’s on Harry’s pillow, with Harry lying half on her chest, one arm slung across her and their legs tangled. It’s too hot to be this close really but there’s no way Draco’s moving. She casts an absent-minded cooling charm over them as she closes her eyes and feels Harry press a grateful kiss to her collar bone. Then she sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> this was half-written drunk and completely un-beta'd so apologies for any mistakes!


End file.
